


A very Moriarty Christmas

by LokiBitch07



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But then there is Moriarty, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Not the way normal people would celebrate Christmas, Sherlock Secret Santa, strange presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiBitch07/pseuds/LokiBitch07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas. Sherlock is bored. A certain criminal is bored as well. </p>
<p>So they celebrate Christmas together. The Moriarty way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A very Moriarty Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Just for explanation, this story takes place after the Great Game but before Reichenbach Fall, with the idea that both events are at least 1-2 years apart. It's an AU, anyway. As in John is straight, Sherlock is gay, and then there is James Moriarty who is way more appealing to a certain detective than he actually should be.  
> Written as a Secret Santa for someone who cosplayed Moriarty/Sherlock with his partner in a Christmas setting. Which, in turn, triggered this story. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and I wish all of you Merry Christmas, if you are into that kind of stuff.

It was another Christmas, another year had gone by, with all its ups and downs.  
Sherlock could not care less. 

John had gone to visit his parents over the holiday, which was fair enough. If he hadn't it would have otherwise been the two of them all alone in their apartment at 221b Baker Street, and, as John continued declaring it to whomever might or might not want to know it, he was not gay, thank you very much. 

Not that Sherlock was going to tell him otherwise.  
John had enough women on each arm that he was sure that he truly believed his 100% hetero lifestyle. 

Mummy had called Sherlock a couple of days ago asking him to join her, Dad and Mycroft for the holidays, but Sherlock had curtly declined. He was not up for another couple of tense days watching his brother stuff his face, hissing at him that he was a fat loser just to be sneered at that he was a private _detective_ , for Christ sake, and that that was even worse. And then Mummy would yell at them, and then they would yell back, and in the end Mummy would cry a tiny little bit. 

No thank you. 

That was not going to happen.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, plucking away at his violin, watching the snow fall silently onto the window sill. 

He was out of milk. 

John had done the shopping before he left, but there had been an experiment in the meantime, where the decomposition rate of a dead woman's face submerged in diary products played a major role, and now he was out.  
There was also the experiment he had been delaying because he knew John would groundlessly argue with him until he could take it no more. He wanted to test different concentrations of ammonia and how they affected the coagulation rate on blood in different types of decaying tissue. Now that he was alone it was probably a good time to do it. Maybe he could even work with different brands of ammonia just to see if it would made a difference. 

Sherlock plucked at another string. He sighed. 

That meant he would have to go outside. On Christmas Eve. 

Fine.

Slowly he peeled himself out of his chair, threw on some clothes and pulled on his Belstaff, wrapped the scarf around his neck. 

Then he left the flat, stepped onto the snow-covered walkway. 

 

He almost missed the first clue.

Almost. 

 

Just on the corner between Baker Street and Allsop Place was a graffiti, scrawled with edding pen, small and inconspicuous. 

“Miss me?” 

Sherlock walked past it, turning his coat collar up against the wind. 

He took a couple more steps before he slowed down, stopped. He frowned, then went back to the corner, staring at the black writing at hip height. The dot on top of the i was heart-shaped. There were two dots and a line indicating a smiley-face inside of the heart. 

Sherlock grimaced. 

He straightened to continue on his way when he noticed a couple of seemingly random numbers on his left-hand side, only a couple of inches off the dirty snow-slush of the walkway.  
They were written in the same black pen as the words further on top. 

51.46146 - 0.19726

He blinked, rereading the numbers again.  
Coordinates. 

Clearly. 

South of London

He calculated for a moment, realizing that both the longitude and latitude were missing the last digit to make full sense. 

A map of London flashed inside of his mind, narrowing down the larger area outside of the city.

The coordinates were located inside an old industrial area. 

Sherlock's mind raced, hopping between the different buildings positioned within the radius. An abandoned automobile factory. A deserted knitwear factory. And then there was the old power station. 

Sherlock snapped back into the here and now.

Well.  
Christmas might turn out to be a lot more entertaining than he had previously hoped for. 

 

Without a second thought Sherlock turned and waved at a cab that was about to rush past him, stepping to the side when the car skidded to a halt on the frozen pavement. 

He climbed into the too-hot interior, gave the address, sneering when the cabbie told him he had no idea where the hell that was. He sighed, rolled his eyes and finally huffed out that he would tell him the way. 

Then they started driving. 

They arrived at the site just before the sun was about to set. The snow continued to fall heavily. 

Sherlock climbed out of the cab, threw a fifty pound note onto the backseat and walked towards the abandoned building. The gray walls of the old power station loomed against the dark gray sky, white snowflakes silently dancing towards the ground, covering the dirty, muddy floor in a fresh layer of white. 

Sherlock made his way towards the large fence that was restricting the area to nosy pedestrians. His eyes roamed over the crumbling walls, the broken windows, the partially collapsed roof. The fence was seemingly intact, and with the fresh snow he could not make out if someone had entered the building within the last hours. The power station lay large and seemingly empty in front of him, giving no indication that someone would be here.

Someone?

No. 

Sherlock knew who the message was from.

Moriarty. 

Of course it would be Jim. 

Who else?

He took another look at the fence and then quickly climbed it, ignoring the way the chain-link groaned underneath him. He jumped down on the other side, and then walked towards the building. Within minutes Sherlock found a door to his far right and entered, climbing over a pile of rubble before he stepped onto a dark, cold factory floor. He searched his pockets until he found the small flashlight he kept tugged away, flicking it on, sending the ray of cold light into the never-ending darkness. 

Nothing.

Sherlock sighed and started roaming. Either Jim would be up on the higher floor, or down in the basement. 

He stopped and turned towards a stairwell he had noted in the corner of his eyes. It was cold, dark and wet. Sherlock hesitated less than a second which way to take. 

Downstairs.  
Basement.

It was more Jim, as cliché as it seemed. 

Sherlock worked his way down, stopping only for a moment at the handwriting along the brittle walls in familiar black ink. “Miss me?” and, a few steps down “I missed you.” The second phrase was surrounded by dozens of little hearts.

Sherlock frowned and continued on. He stepped into the damp basement, for a moment debating whether to turn right or left when he heard the faint sound of music wafting towards him. 

Johann Sebastian Bach.

Christmas Oratorio.

Sherlock sighed again. Cliché.

He turned to the left, following the sound into the darkness, around a corner and then another, before he finally picked up the faint shine of light reflecting off the dark, damp walls. 

Sherlock turned another corner and then stopped. 

The hallway in front of him was lined with a series of candles, all red, lining the path on both sides all the way to a closed door. Soft music spilled out through the illuminated crack, the floor soaked in artificial light.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the display and switched off his flashlight. Then he walked towards the door, the flames of the candles flickering with the breeze of his coat when he passed them. He stopped in front of it. 

Without a second thought he pushed down the handle and swung the door open. 

He blinked at the scene in front of him. 

Moriarty was sitting on a red leather couch, legs crossed, a cup of what smelled like spiced mulled wine in his hand. He was wearing a Christmas sweater, which Sherlock could not help but stare at in appalled horror for several seconds. It was dark blue, thick and knitted, the shoulders covered in oversized white snow flakes, a gingerbread man in the middle of his chest sporting a red pompom of a nose. Jim was wearing a black Santa hat sitting at an angle on his black, shiny-slick hair, the words “On the naughty list” spelled out on the white, fluffy border. 

Sherlock felt like his eyes were going to start to bleed any moment now. 

He blinked, continued to look around.

There was a small Christmas tree in the right corner with a single red present sitting underneath it, the tree covered in some of the tackiest ornaments Sherlock had never wanted to know existed. Next to it on the floor was a skull (not his own, good, otherwise he would have murdered Moriarty for stealing it), a gaudy set of antlers on its head.  
To his left was a large table groaning under the weight of an array of different traditional Christmas foods, ham, roast duck, spiced beef, cranberry sauce, bread sauce, brussels sprouts, minced pies, stuffing, gingerbread men, Christmas pudding and a large chocolate yule log. Enough to feed a family of 10 at least. 

The music continued to doodle, Bach's Oratorio coming to an end. 

In the next few notes Sherlock recognized Tchaikovsky's Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. He took a deep, grounding breath.  
Then he carefully closed the door behind himself. 

He turned to face Moriarty, whose glittering black eyes were focused on him, dark and dangerous, a stark contrast to his ridiculous outfit. His voice was his usual low singsong. “You are late. Are you losing your touch, my dear?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, stepping into the room. “It is snowing outside. Strange that you would not have considered what it would do to the traffic.” Slowly he peeled himself out of his coat, hanging the wet garment on a small hanger next to the entry. “Maybe it is you losing your touch, not me.”

Jim sighed deeply. “Excuses, excuses.” He leaned forward, mouth spreading into a wolfish smile that did not reach his eyes. “It is of no matter. You are here now.”

Sherlock sniffed, took a look around. “Yes. And I am already regretting my decision to come. This place looks like the wet dream of one of John's girlfriends. What the hell, Jim?”

Moriarty continued to grin, black eyes sparkling. “Isn't it beautiful? All of it just for you, Sherlock. I even brought you a sweater.” Sherlock grit his teeth, staring down at Jim who was grinning like a madman. He followed the finger pointing to his right, noting the garish green jumper on a small chair that looked way too much like an elf-costume. The red Santa hat on top was draped so he could read the large letters. “On the nice list.”

For Christ sake.

Sherlock focused back on the slighter man in front of him. He remained standing, the corners of his mouth curled downwards. “I don't think so.”

Moriarty's smile did not waver. “Come on, Sherlock. You are the one who is trying so very hard to fit in with the _ordinary_ people. Play, along, will you?”

Sherlock sighed, took another look around. Information flooded his brain, swamping it.  
The food apparently had been made by a 71 year old grandmother and her daughter-in-law, the women surrounded by three, no four children while they had been cooking. They had been slightly drunk on eggnog.  
Sherlock shook his head. He hoped Jim had not killed the whole family. 

It would be a waste.  
He was not hungry, after all. 

He turned back to towards the slight criminal, repeated. “Why am I here, Jim?”

Moriarty sighed theatrically, stretching his lithe body like a cat. “Do I need a reason to want to celebrate the holidays with a loved one?” He laughed softly at Sherlock's dramatic eye roll.  
Then he slowly stood until he faced the detective, tilting his head slightly to look up at him. One side of his mouth was pulled up into a loop-sided smile. “Well now, would you look at that, Sherlock? What do you think that is?” Jim was staring past him, towards the ceiling. 

God help him, he looked up.

He blinked at the small green twig hanging above him, attached to a too-large hook in the wall with a red satin ribbon.

He looked back down at Jim, voice tight. “Viscum album, a hemiparasitic plants from the order Santalales. This type is typically found in England, the similar Viscum cruciatum growing in the southern parts of Europe...”

Jim came even closer, leaning in. “Don't tip off into one of your rants, darling.” His voice had lowered into a soft purr. “How about you give me a kiss?”

Sherlock took a step back. “Jim, of all the tasteless customs that you had to drag out, this is really one of them? This is _boring_ , even for you.”

Jim rocked on his feet, his hands clasped in the small of his back. “Come on, now, refusing a kiss means bad luck.”, he sung. “ _Everybody_ knows that. And maybe that's what I called you in for.” He bared his teeth, black eyes glittering dangerously once more. “You have been denying me your kisses for much too long.”

Sherlock sniffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I've been busy.”

Moriarty snorted. “Ah yes, chasing through London with that useless pet of yours, sticking your nose where it does not belong. Maybe I should have him spayed, what do you think, darling?”

Sherlock grit his teeth. “I think I am going to leave.”

He waited for a moment before he stepped back, slowly retracing his steps back towards his coat, always keeping his eyes on the smaller man. 

Jim had kidnapped him before.  
And he did not want to wake up in chains somewhere. Not again...  
Memories swamped over him. Not that it had not been fun in the end...

Moriarty laughed, a low titter. “Relax, honey. I was quite in a bad mood, cause that corrupt police officer you exposed was actually one of _mine_. And he has been such a _useful_ asset.”

The slighter man sighed theatrically, eyeing Sherlock, who was still standing next to the door. He shrugged and turned towards the table picking up a tasteless mug in the form of a snowman, filling it with what smelled like more mulled wine from a thermos. He turned back, handing Sherlock the steaming mug. His mouth was pulled into a pout. “You can't leave yet, Sherlock. You haven't even opened your present yet. Don't you want to know what I got you?”

Sherlock deliberated for a moment, then decided that this, whatever this was, still better than going back home. 

Home was boring, after all. 

This?

Not so much. 

He took a sip of the dark beverage. It was hot and spicy, with just a slight hint of orange and cinnamon. Not too sweet. 

It was good. 

Still he shook his head, his dark curls shifting against his forehead. “No. I don't want any of your presents. I am not interested in whatever gaudy idea you have come up with. Socks or ties or perfume. No thank you.” He deliberated for a moment, then frowned. “And I also don't want to find all the fingers of the poor sod's family whom this living room belonged to.”

None of those things would have been a surprise. 

Jim tutted, shook his head. “Sherlock, I would never... That would be in no way part of the Christmas spirit, now would it? He's on the way to the Bahamas for a cruise. In the end he realized that it was a good trade. His and his family's life and a holiday for... well. This” Both of them took a look around at the Christmas setup, Sherlock cringing, Moriarty beaming. Then Jim turned back and danced up to Sherlock in sync with the music, his arms swaying at his sides. He twirled on his toes, catching himself against Shelock's chest, laughing breathlessly. He leaned in, his hot breath washing against the detective's ear. His voice was almost too low to make out over the music that continued to doodle. “19th of July. 1976.”

Sherlock's eyes widened, he took a deep breath. And another. 

That date...

Jim was watching him closely, dark eyes following his every move.  
Sherlock knew how much the criminal enjoyed watching him think. 

That date though... it did ring a bell, however faintly. 

His mind opened, and he dove into a maelstrom of information, sucking him deeper and deeper. He dashed through his mind palace until he reached the room labeled 1976, where he threw the door open and then he walked towards the drawers there, and there... there...

There it was. 

19th July, 1976. 

A Monday. 

Olympia in Montreal.  
The band Deep Purple disbanded.

Sherlock shook his head, wiped the information away. 

Not what he was looking for.

“Have you found it yet?” The soft Irish lilt disturbed him in his thoughts, and Sherlock shook his head at the sound, trying to keep it from interfering with his process. “Shut up, Jim.”

There was a soft laugh. 

1976... 1976... 1976...

There had been a body on the southern bank of the Thames, but that had been a suicide.  
Several car crashes.  
A murder close to Piccadilly Square. But the perpetrator had been a disgruntled ex-boyfriend who had been caught less than a week later. 

But there was... there was...

The information he had been looking for bloomed in front of his eyes, a headline he had once scanned for a cold case and then had packed away in his mind. 

Sophie McMiller. 14. 

Runaway.

Slowly Sherlock opened his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Sophie?”

Jim's grin widened, which should not have been possible, showing way too many teeth. “You have to open the present. I am not going to tell.”, he sung. Black eye were ripped too wide, glittering menacingly in the artificial light. 

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the present sitting under the tree, bound in shiny red paper, a square box, large enough that it could hold a skull. Maybe.  
He bowed down to retrieve it, staring at Jim who had thrown himself back onto the sofa, patting the empty space next to him. “Come, join me Sherlock. Don't worry. I am not going to bite.” His voice was a low, soft purr. 

Sherlock was not so sure about that.

Then again...  
His eyes roamed over Moriarty's body, remembering... well. He had liked being bitten by the consulting criminal, after all.  
Among other things.

Sherlock shook his head, then slowly sat down, cradling the present on his thighs. It was light, too light to hold much of anything, really. He pulled at the ribbon until it opened, then carefully lifted the lid off the box. 

There was a whole lot of black silk paper, and carefully Sherlock removed crumbled layer by layer before he reached what he had been looking for. 

Carefully he lifted the small item out of its bed, holding it against the light. 

It was a bone. 

Small.  
Old.  
Mossy-green.

Cracked. Maybe a knife-mark on one side.

Sherlock turned it. 

A knuckle. 

Definitely human. 

His mouth was dry with excitement. 

His eyes flicked up, and he looked at Moriarty who still was, surprise surprise, grinning at him. The bastard was as smug as could be. “Serial killer, Sherlock. And he is not going to be easy to find him. Oh no. Somewhere in Europe now, I heard.”

Sherlock ripped his eyes away from the evidence. A hot flame burned brightly in his chest. He wanted to jump up, grab his coat, and start detecting... He cleared his throat. “You know where he is?”

Moriarty tittered, laid his head to the side. “Of course I do. He's one of mine after all. That should help you get over the holidays until your pet is back. Wouldn't want my favorite detective to get bored and do something stupid, now, would I?” Moriarty beamed at him. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. Warmth bloomed in his stomach, a feeling dangerously close to affection. He carefully placed the bone back into its bed of paper, placed the lid back onto the box. “Merry Christmas, Jim.”

Moriarty's mouth spread even wider, and he leaned closer, his black, hooded eyes studying Sherlock intently. “You still me owe me a kiss.”

Sherlock returned the gaze, looked at the black, slicked-back hair, the pale skin, the dark stubble around his mouth. Then he leaned in, closing his eyes as their lips touched.

He had missed this, after all.

Not that he would ever tell. 

He would never hear the end of it. 

x

In the end Moriarty even made him wear the Christmas sweater. Not that he wore it for very long, mind you. 

All in all it turned out to be a very... satisfying Christmas.


End file.
